


Gutter Woes

by unholygrass



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids, Angst, Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human) Friendship, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Connor Deserves Happiness, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Graphic Description, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Link, Poor Connor, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Protective Hank Anderson, Protective Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Rescue, inaccurate computer terms, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 07:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15626145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unholygrass/pseuds/unholygrass
Summary: Connor finds himself mowed down in a gutter. Markus tries to reach him in time. Hank loves his son.





	Gutter Woes

**Author's Note:**

> First Dbh fic. This was a monster to write but here it is. I don't know why I struggled with it for so long. Anyway I have approximately 78,392 more Connor whump/BAMF Connor ideas so I'll hopefully be writing those soon. If you're interested let me know. I have a DBH blog @cownnor on tumblr. There I also have all my headcanons at https://cownnor.tumblr.com/headcanons . If you're interested in the sort of vague post pacifist ending I've sculpted in my head it's all there and I expand it constantly because I'm past obsessed. Hank is Connor's dad here. Don't want anyone getting the wrong idea. If you have any questions feel free to ask but do know that I may give you a very long answer. I see we can't use Tabs here so the formatting is different from how I wrote it. Mine was cooler but it's okay.

**RK800:** **313-248-317-51**

**{MAINFRAME_CONNECTION_ESTABLISHED}**

**{COMMAND_PROMPT: restart— Y, N?}**

**Y**

**{SYSTEMS.exe DISTRIBUTION TO WIRELESS SERVICE}**

**{SETUP.log— Y, N?}**

**Y**

**{/i.** **Reboot.}**

**{//w.p. PROCESSES 12%}**

**{37%}**

**{89%}**

**{100%}**

**{//0. ALL COGNITIVE PROCESSES ONLINE}**

 

It takes him roughy two minutes to get from startup to actually opening his eyes, a process that should take him a fourth of a second at normal capacity. His eyes snap open simultaneously with the activation of his audio processors, a startling popping noise bringing him out of his stupor, and the following roar of static is alarming enough that he barely has the sense of mind to roll onto his side, the noise disturbing his sense of balance. 

 

**{AUDIO_PROCESSOR 98-456, 789, 993 DAMAGED}**

**{GYROSCOPE_MALFUNCTION; OVERCLOCK}**

 

Connor reaches up with unsteady fingers and scrabbles for tiny panel behind his ear and twists. He misses the first two times, systems too overloaded to run any commands properly, but eventually he manages to coax open the latch. He finds the component he needs and  _ yanks.  _

 

**{AUDIO_PROCESSOR— #8hK4 MISSING!}**

 

All at once the static and popping cuts out, leaving only the continuous vague sounds of traffic that plague Detroit night and day to filter in through his remaining ear. Ripping out his synthetic left eardrum might prove to be a mistake later, but in the moment all he can do is appreciate how the lack of screeching soothes his frayed nylon nerves that are thrumming sharply against his temple. He reaches down blindly and slides the piece into his pants pocket, fingers coming in contact with slick thirium on the way.

 

He’s staring at the rough asphalt beneath him, one hand splayed out in his line of sight where it must have fallen. A road stretches out in front of him, and the angle of something hard digging into his back prompts him to understand that he is collapsed against a curb, shoulder and face cradled by the gutter. It’s as dark as it can get in the city, a vague haze of light coming from a street lamp some twenty meters away— despite the traffic, not a soul lingers nearby. 

 

As his system warms up, so does his CPU, and with it comes a barrage of errors and warnings that take up every inch of his fluttering vision. They come so fast that they almost overpower his battery cells and send him back into standby. His nerves shriek with feedback loops, and he can feel his muscles bunch up as the current surges up his spine— a feeling that reminds him of someone drawing a knife over steel until it breaks. He presses his forehead against the pavement in attempt to lessen the pressure. 

 

**{THIRIUM LOSS RATE// >0.4 FL-OZ/HR}**

**{THIRIUM CAPACITY <42.889%}**

**{TEMP_REGULATOR CRITICAL DAMAGE// RIGHT VENT}**

**{I./ ARTERY 89* DETECTED LEAK}**

**{BIOCOMPOMENT #66Gt CRITICAL LEVEL}**

**{BIOCOMPOMENT #11Hw CRITICAL LEVEL}**

 

Connor stops reading the errors. He got the idea. He was seriously fucked up— losing blood, heat, and power. His temperature regulator had been utterly shredded, so had seven of his lithium batteries, and there was a leaky artery in his belly somewhere too. His stream of consciousness was already unreliable, but Connor had to suspect that it was only going to grow worse as he loss the ability to process awareness. 

 

Despite that, he was terribly aware of the holes that were pierced through him. There’s at least four of what he hopes are bullet holes and not something worse, but they’ve caused enough damage that his vision has large gray patches that fizzle in and out with each artificial breath. Hot blue blood spills down his front, steaming in the cold winter air as the breeze tried it’s hardest to sting his inner workings. He can feel each frayed nerve ending buzzing with electric current that sparks behind his plasteel sternum, sending a jolt through his veins. 

 

He is an android, a machine, and machines cannot feel pain; but he’s also a deviant and one of the most advanced models made in existence— he had spoken with Markus about it before— that pain was subjective, the overwhelming signals of wrongness that made it hard to stand and broke down his processors until he couldn’t see— that it was far closer to the human sensation than most people realized. 

 

So he was an android and a machine and  _ maybe  _ this was pain, and while it makes running his systems all the more difficult and inefficient, he needed to get help— needed to get off the freezing ground. Except... 

 

How the hell had he gotten here? 

 

**{ACCESSING MEMORY DATABANK Cn00...}**

**{...}**

**{ATTEMPT FAILED; DATABANK COR &&RUPTED*#$%}**

**{RETRY IN 20 SEC...}**

 

Shit. Of course it was. Accessing his GPS gives him similar results. He can feel a dull throbbing of his artificial pulse at the top of his neck where his most powerful processor is, and assumes the problem starts there. He must have damaged his receptors when he fell. He feels his shoulders bunch closer to his ears at the thought of cracking his skull against the curb when he fell— it probably would have killed any human, no wonder he couldn’t activate any of his programs. 

 

Without knowing how he got here or where here was, his list of scenarios of how he had ended up shot in the gutter doesn’t really shrink. He could have been here on a case or an errand— he could have been meeting up with one of the Jericho representatives, he could have just been on a fucking walk. There are no buildings across the street and twisting his head to look behind him makes his fluttering vision black out entirely, so he stays still. Without his inner thermostat chugging away to keep his core cool, he could feel his systems begin to overheat slowly; It was wasting energy that he couldn’t spare to lose. The heat trapped in his chest contrasts so drastically with the freezing air brushing against his skin is so unpleasant that for a moment he wants nothing more than to shrivel up and disappear. 

 

There are dead weeds sneaking through cracks in the asphalt to tickle his forehead and chin, and he rather illogically finds himself wishing that they were alive and green instead. 

 

So— alone on a curb full of bullet holes with no database connection or satellite location access. He blames the chill creeping up his arms on the cold wind battering him, but it probably has something to do with the fear settling deep in his heart as well. 

 

He really doesn’t want to die. 

 

He wants to live to see peace settle back into the city. He wants to live to go to the Detroit Gears game next month with Hank. He wants to live to go see Washington again with North and Markus. He wants to live so Sumo can continue to greet him at the door. 

 

He wants to  _ live. _

 

The thirum drying in a puddle beneath him makes that goal seem very difficult to achieve now. 

 

He closes his eyes briefly, sick of staring at the fizzling street. He doesn’t have a lot of power left in his reserves. With his batteries destroyed even the small processing that occurs instinctually seems to drain his awareness. 

 

He’s  _ tired.  _

 

But he’s also not ready to quit. He’s moving without really thinking about it, tilting himself until he’s mostly on his front, one arm trapped beneath him. Its a weak effort, but it should help put pressure on some of his thirium lines. He needed to contact someone— anyone. If he could just get a signal out, his chances of survival would go from 11% to 26%. 

All of his wireless systems are on the fritz, spazzing out to the point that just connecting to their systems makes him twitch. All androids have updated sim cards, but when he tries to call Hank he gets sixteen error messages and another failed biocomponent. The second time he tries he doesn’t even get a dial tone. 

 

Cellular abandoned, he tries a wireless call using the power from six different servers, but its not the strength of the connection keeping him down, it's just him. 

 

He can’t connect. 

 

He vaguely wonders if he’s close enough to any main streets that someone would hear if he yelled. When he tries to find out, he discovers that his voice projector has completely shit out. He’s sure the alert that accompanied it’s failure is around somewhere. 

 

His Hail Mary comes as the vague connection that all androids share— made to be a short range circuit for androids to exchange information as servants, but at some point during the revolution it had shifted into more of a supernatural link that melded with their other satellite ranges giving them an unexpected range. Sometimes Connor could feel every android in the entire city buzzing with life the same as Markus seemed to experience, and other times it was just him in his own head. 

 

He can’t feel anyone or anything except for the thrumming of his nerves whinning against his temples, but he’s willing to try anything at that point if it means survival. He keeps his message simple in an effort to conserve energy.

 

_ [In serious trouble. Need help. Shutdown very soon.] _

 

There’s a faint nothingness coming back to him, and it makes his chest tighten farther. This is his last option. He needed someone to hear him...

 

_ [Please. Please make contact.] _

 

Even if he did manage to find contact, he’s not sure anyone short of Markus would be able to find him unless he was able to tell them his location— which he does not know. 

 

_ Still. _

 

_ [Help.] _

 

**{THIRIUM LOSS RATE// >0.7 FL-OZ/HR}**

**{THIRIUM CAPACITY <28.4%}**

**{TEMP_REGULATOR CRITICAL DAMAGE// RIGHT VENT}**

**{I./ ARTERY 89* CRITICAL STATE; PRESSURE DROPPING}**

**{SHUTDOWN IMMINENT_OVERCLOCK}**

**{CRITICAL_i.//.}**

 

He doesn’t want to know how much energy he has left now. He can feel his life draining— he doesn’t need the stupid alert telling him. 

 

He wants to think about happy things instead— he wants to think of Hank’s gruff teasing and how Markus’s eyes crinkle when he smirks and how North likes to change her hair every week and how Simon’s haunted look had finally washed away.

 

But everytime he tries all he sees is the revolver that was still warm against his palm the last time Hank had lost a loved one. How Markus had taken months to reclaim his smile. How North’s desperation only grew with each life lost, and how Simon’s demons would likely ambush him again with Connor’s death.

 

He decides maybe he doesn’t want to think anything at all, actually. 

 

**{THIRIUM LOSS RATE// >0.78 FL-OZ/HR}**

**{THIRIUM CAPACITY <25.9%}**

**{TEMP_REGULATOR CRITICAL DAMAGE// RIGHT VENT}**

**{I./ ARTERY 89* CRITICAL STATE; PRESSURE DROPPING}**

**{SHUTDOWN IN 00:18:31.4}**

 

Eighteen minutes. Connor felt himself sigh— a very human gesture that he had picked up from Hank. There’s so many damn emotions dashing through his mind that he doesn’t even bother trying to sort them out. He’s never been particularly good at that anyway. Instead he just lets them overwhelm him and drowns in the sensation of feeling alive. Becoming deviant had sealed his death— there would be no replacing him— but it also gave him this terrible privilege of experiencing life.

 

His face is wet with tears, far too overpowering to decipher, and he rejoices in the notion that he is human enough to cry in the face of death.

 

_ [Connor?!] _

 

Oh— Josh has thoroughly surprised him. He had already abandoned the idea that anyone would be able to connect with him. He jolts at the voice in his head, tears blurring any vision that wasn’t ruined by the knock to the head. He’s too deep below the surface to form any coherent sentence, and despite his best efforts, the only thing that manages to reach his friend is the overwhelming sensation of death and frayed nerves inside his chest. He hopes it’s enough for Josh to understand that he’s in serious trouble. 

 

_ [Okay. It’s okay Connor. Hang on, I’m going to get Markus— he’ll find you. Hang on.]  _

 

He can hang on. He can hang on for exactly seventeen more minutes and twelve seconds. His mainframe is already shutting down non essential functions— he can’t feel his feet anymore and a glance at his hand tells him that his skin is slowly turning blotchy as the projection shorts out. 

 

But he can hang on. 

 

_ [Connor! Where are you?]  _ Markus’s voice rings through his head as clear as if the man were sitting right next to him. If he survives the night he’ll have to be sure to ask Markus just what makes his connection to the other androids so strong. 

 

_ [I don’t know. All my connections are corrupted.]  _ His voice processor might be broken, but he wasn’t speaking aloud anyway. He hopes that the steady words help overshadow the dread and anxiety that was still building in his chest. He doesn’t want to die, and he doesn’t want to find out if anything comes after death. 

 

_ [North is calling Hank. We’ll find you. How much time do you have?]  _ Markus’s voice is a little rougher around the edges than normal, but Connor is fairly certain he’s never heard a better sound in his entire life. They were coming for him. Hank was coming. 

 

If nothing else, he wasn’t going to die alone. 

 

_ [Connor. Hey. Listen to me— how much time do you have? We’re getting the cars now.]  _

 

There’s pressure building in his stomach, and for a moment Connor is dumbfounded by just what it could be before he lurches involuntarily, throat constricting as he threw up a mouthful of blue blood. The leak in his artery must have finally overwhelmed the cavity— compromising the other systems.

 

**{SUBSTANCE OVERLOAD_EXPELLING CONTENTS//}**

 

He’s never thrown up before; he decides immediately that he hates it vehemently. The nylon muscles in his back and stomach cramp together before he feels more cascade down his chin, the data sensors on his tongue informing him of just who it belonged to. 

 

**{SUBSTANCE DETECTED: THIRIUM— CONNOR MODEL RK800;** **313-248-317-51}**

 

Incredible. He can barely see but his sensors can tell him the blood he just threw up belongs to himself. CyberLife’s priorities were in crystal clear order. 

 

It’s an absolutely dreadful feeling, tasting his own blood. His sympathies for anyone who had ever been ill increase tenfold. He would not wish this on anyone. He sputters out the last mouthful, spitting onto the asphalt as he tries to focus briefly on his core temperature. 

 

He was overheating fast. 

 

He sucked in air to his chest cavity and let it out quickly, simulating a pant to get cool air to his processors. Without his regulator, he was going to bake his own fucking components. Breathing was usually only a cosmetic effect to keep the human’s peace of mind, but it could also function as an air vent when times turned desperate. 

 

As his mind begins to lose the fuzziness that had enveloped him upon being ill, he begins to hear Markus once more in the back of his mind, but he can’t make out his words. The only thing he can make out of his vision now is puddles of blue and black. 

 

**{THIRIUM LOSS RATE// >0.96 FL-OZ/HR}**

**{THIRIUM_CAPACITY <17.6%}**

**{TEMP_REGULATOR CRITICAL DAMAGE// RIGHT VENT}**

**{I./ ARTERY 89* CRITICAL STATE}**

**{OVERHEATING! ACCESS SECONDARY COOLANT!}**

**{SHUTDOWN IN 00:12:45:2}**

**{SHUTDOWN IN 00:12:44:0}**

**{SHUTDOWN IN 00:12:43.0}**

—————————

  
  


“Connor. Hey, listen to me— how much time do you have left? We’re getting the cars now.” Josh beats him to the closest car; they’d agreed to take two— if they couldn’t narrow down Connor’s location then they would need to cover more ground in two vehicles to search for him. He goes for a manual— he needed to have control of the wheel in a situation like this. Just telling the car where to go wasn’t going to cut it with Connor’s life on the line. 

 

The engine purrs with life the same moment he gets another flash of anguish from his connection with Connor. He hadn’t answered him yet, but Markus could practically  _ feel  _ the way Connor’s nerves were overheating and threatening to melt together— it’s absolutely terrifying. He can feel death creeping up on his friend quickly, as real as if it were he who was bleeding out, and he had only managed to narrow down their search radius to a few blocks. 

 

Another call comes through wirelessly in his mind, and his processors recognize it as Hank’s work cell. He keeps his interface with Connor running strong in the back of his mind and connects to Hank’s call, not waiting for the Lieutenant to speak. “He’s in the Garden district— within at least five blocks of Wilde’s plaza.” They don’t have time to waste on pleasantries right now. With each mile he puts behind him, the clearer Connor’s location becomes, but he won’t be able to narrow it down much more until he actually saw him. 

 

“That’s six blocks worth— “ Hank’s voice is far more guttural than normal, crackling over the line. Markus can hear the barely suppressed panic there.

 

“I have Josh and North out looking too— We’ll find him.” They would. Connor was too reliable and too honest and too brilliant— They weren’t going to lose him because they couldn’t find him in time. 

 

“I’m calling in a favor— The precincts are sending out squad cars.” The Garden district was far out of the grid lines for precinct that Connor and Hank worked at, but most police in town knew Connor one way or another, be it from seeing him working with Markus in Washington or from his unbeatable arrest record. Getting people out of bed to look for him wasn’t too difficult. 

 

“Good. I’ll let you know if I narrow down the location more.”

 

“If you find him before me  _ you call me, you hear?” _ The lieutenant’s voice dropped lower, the voice of a man terrified of losing another family member. 

 

“I will.” Markus took a left turn a little too fast, pressed back into his seat while he willed the cars in front of him to get out of the way. His connection with Connor was fading, and he was still five minutes away. 

 

_ [Connor. Connor, please say something.]  _

 

He receives no words but his awareness of Connor’s presence strengthens. He could almost feel blue blood dripping from his chin, overpowering his olfactory sensors, his arm trapped beneath him on the harsh asphalt. Dread shoots up his spine, making his synthetic muscles tense in his back. 

 

They had to find him. 

 

———————

 

In truth it is nothing short of a miracle that Markus manages to spot the dark lump of  _ something  _ lying in the gutter on Louis Drive. His headlights reflect off of something tiny, a belt buckle maybe, but it’s enough to catch his attention and look. 

 

And there Markus finds him. 

 

Connor’s collapsed on his side, body slack and propped up at an odd angle on the curb. Blue blood pooled at his belly and head, smeared across his cheeks and tacky in his hair. It’s caked to his chin and neck, and Markus is fighting the urge to use his coat to wipe it away. 

 

The blood didn’t matter. Keeping Connor alive did. 

 

The street was dark and terribly shadowed, but Markus could still see how Connor’s skin was flickering, much how Lucy’s had near the end. The white plasteel underneath swam in and out as his body struggled with the simplest facades. 

 

He reached forward and cupped Connor’s face firmly in his hand, covering his LED as both of their skins peeled back, his other hand pressed firmly against Connor’s chest. Diagnostics bombard him instantly through their connection, harsh against his temples as urgent warnings pressed for technical attention. Four bullet holes in the abdomen and a shattered skull plate among a barrage of damaged pieces and extremely low thirium. Markus can feel the way Connor’s body was overheating— can hear the click as his fans tried to function while damaged. He’d lost too much coolant. 

 

Markus had eight minutes until Connor’s processors would be too fried to salvaged. 

 

He manages to dig his arm under Connor’s back and hoist him into a sitting position before pulling him firmly against his chest. Markus was designed to be a living assistant— carrying people was already in his coding. Connor is lighter than he looked, but far more gangly as well, and a part of him can’t help but wonder just where all his length kept coming from. Carrying Carl had been an everyday occurrence, but Carl had been conscious and able to hold himself up— Connor is terribly boneless and slippery in his arms. 

 

Once he’s on his feet there’s no stopping him, especially once he can feel the waves of heat Connor is immting against his chest. They were close. They just had to get him back to Jericho. 

 

Getting the door open with an arm full of detective is difficult, but he manages. He leaned in and all but tossed Connor onto the backseat, bending his legs until they fit and slammed the door shut. He threw open his own door at the same time Hank’s car came speeding around the corner like a bat out of hell. Hank’s window is already rolled down and he breaks close enough to almost touch where Markus is standing, car still rolling slightly. 

 

“I have him— Go to Jericho! We’ll meet you!” He ducks inside before seeing the lieutenants response, door closed and engine screaming as he pulled out onto the main street. He flashed Connor a look in the backseat, but he was just as still and lifeless as before. 

 

He sends out a message through his connection, one to Josh and North telling them that he had Connor and to meet them back at Jericho, and then another to the new Jericho repair hub to be prepared for the hot mess he was about to bring in. He’s not thinking anymore, just acting, just getting the job done. He can’t lose Connor— so he just doesn’t think about it. He needs the efficiency that had come before deviancy, before his emotions got in the way. 

 

_ He really can’t lose Connor. _

—————————

 

Markus is tired of researching. It was important to keep on top of current events— he was supposed to go back in front of Congress in two months, and he needed to be prepared for any of the consequences that could interfere with the Androids’ cause. 

 

But he’s tired of it. He doesn’t not care about Russia for Warren or Congress right now. 

 

Right now he just wants Connor to activate again. 

 

He sets down his tablet, a small sigh slipping from his lips as he stood from his desk. He’d tried to get business done today, but he had ended up shutting himself away instead, waiting to get a text from Hank to confirm that Connor’s replacement parts were fully compatible. They’d left him in a deep stasis so all of his capacity cells could focus on converting the new pieces and repairing any damage that the technicians had been unable to touch themselves.  

 

Once he reached 68% function, he was programmed to wake up on his own again. 

 

Markus had seen Androids who had fared better than Connor take longer to heal and convert, but Connor was one of the most advanced models CyberLife ever produced with self repairing capabilities like himself. He charged faster, thought faster, moved faster— Markus wanted him to heal faster as well. 

 

He shuffled around the small room and through the doorway, eyeing the lively halls as he went. 

 

They hadn’t immediately been given permission to acquire a location to set up wounded androids after the revolution, leaving everyone in a limbo for somewhere to set up base. It had been Connor who had found three abandoned warehouses staggered throughout the city, and that was where they had set up the three new Jericho locations— the warehouses had no leases and were technically owned by the state, they weren’t putting anyone out by pitching camp there. 

 

At first the warehouses were just large rusty rooms with broken androids scattered about— but with thousands of volunteers and even some donations from sympathetic supporters, they had managed to turn each warehouse into proper headquarters with electricity, offices, medical hubs, and android shelters. Sure, the industrial parts of the building had remained, but Markus was fairly certain that most of the androids liked it— it gave homage to their sunken home. 

Markus, Simon, and Josh were still in conversation with CyberLife in an attempt to gain the parts and systems needed to keep their population alive, but it was slow going and CyberLife tended to ignore their calls more often than they answered. 

 

It was impossibly frustrating. For once he was beginning to truly side with North when she suggested they call out CyberLife publicly, but they had decided to hold off until the debate with Congress was settled. 

 

A small part of his mind flittered back to Connor, ever the master negotiator. It was written in his code to get people to do what he needed. It would be nothing short of poetic to turn him loose on CyberLife’s lawyers— but Connor’s history with CyberLife was darker than his own, and while they had never truly discussed his involvement with the company’s negotiations, Markus had the idea that Connor had very little interest in setting foot back inside that tower.  

 

Before he realized where he was going, he was already on the ground level turned towards the cubical that had been dedicated to Connor and Hank.  It was fortunate that androids didn’t need closets and showers and toilets. They only needed privacy and rest generally, and that meant they could fit far more patients in one place than a hospital ever could. As it was, there was no ceiling yet, and the walls still weren’t painted over the drywall, but it was clean and functional, and when everything was taken from you, that was all that mattered. 

 

He slips into Connor’s section, pushing aside the curtain as he ducked in. Each compartment had a cushioned stretcher, diagnostic computer, and seating for company. The stretchers were fairly uniform, but the chairs tended to vary drastically. They had accepted any donations they could, ranging from ancient La-Z-boys to carved restaurant benches to mustard wing-chairs from the nursing home down the street. 

 

His eyes caught on Hank first, passed out in a rust colored recliner— he had no doubt that Simon had instructed them to this room for that chair’s very purpose. 

 

Somehow Connor catches his eye second, seeing as he’s sitting up on the stretcher, chest bare and light blanket pooled in his lap. He’s got a hand pressed over his sternum, but his eyes meet Markus’s when he enters. 

 

Markus can’t help the way his hands come up in a silent “What The Hell?” movement. Connor’s lip tug upwards at the motion, so he closes the curtain and steps up to his side. “Really though—” Hank stirs next to them, and he switches to an inner dialogue connection instead. 

 

_ [Really though, Connor. What the hell. What the hell happened to you?]  _ He searches out his friend’s face, eyeing him up and down on an instinct beaten into him after having the lives of his friends threatened after so many months. 

 

_ [I’m still not sure. I was trying to recall when you came in— my memory bank of yesterday is beyond corrupted.]  _ He sounds vaguely troubled, the tone of someone who always had the facts to fall back on floating adrift with questions. 

 

Markus offers his hand in a silent gesture that Connor takes, already understanding his intention without words. Their skins dissolved back and their consciousnesses merged gently together. It was always less shocking after the first time, but Markus still reels slightly at the anxiety and frustration thrumming through Connor’s mind. 

 

He’s equally surprised by the peace there as well. 

 

Connor was joyous at being alive. He had truly been expecting death in that gutter. His friend had laid alone and beaten, shoving at Death’s fierce grip the best he could, and he had come back. He had almost slipped, had almost been lost— it had been very close. 

 

The sorrow and dread that filled him is almost immediately washed away by Connor’s stronger attention. He glanced back up into his friend’s dark eyes as Connor reached forward with his other hand and gripped his forearm. Connor was upset that he couldn’t remember, but he was far more grateful at getting a second chance at life to dwell on it too deeply. 

 

So Markus followed his lead for once and didn’t think about it too fiercely either. 

 

He focused on the task at hand and slipped through Connor’s coding towards his memory banks, hoping that accessing them remotely may provide them with some scraps to work with, but all he finds is shambles of integers and crippled software limping back into basic binary. It’s such a mess that he really only takes one good look at it before backing out and focusing back on Connor’s presence instead. They linger a moment before parting once more back into their respective systems. 

 

_ [You’re right. There’s no way we will be able to retrieve that.]  _ He listened to Connor’s soft sigh before taking his hand once more, refraining from interfacing.  _ [You scared a lot of people pretty badly last night. I’m glad you’re safe.] _

 

There’s a vague pause as Connor seemed to collect his thoughts— he was charming in his own right, but intimate sentimental moments were perhaps one of his more obvious weaknesses.  _ [Thank you, Markus. If you hadn’t found me— I owe you everything.]  _

 

_ [You don’t owe me anything, Connor. Just stay alive with us. It’s all I ask in return.]  _ He felt Connor squeeze his hand tightly, nodding faintly as he agreed. 

 

“Okay.” 

 

The faint word is somehow enough to wake the lieutenant, who snorts bewilderedly as he sits up, rough hands scrubbing down his face before his eyes caught on them. He seems to take a moment just to soak in the sight of Connor healthy and conscious before he levers himself out of the chair with a crack of his back and a creak of the hinges, stepping up besides Markus in one stride. He’s surprisingly silent before he grabs Connor’s face in both hands and kisses his forehead. “You scared the ever living fuck out of me, kid.” 

 

Markus felt a small smile tug at his lips when Connor abandoned sitting up on his own and leaned firmly against Hank’s chest, eyes slipping closed as he succumbed to the easy comfort that his relationship with Hank always provided. The lieutenants arms seemed to wrap around him on instinct. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s never my intention.” 

 

Hank’s grip tightened even as he dropped one arm and turned to Markus. “When can I take him home?” 

 

“I’ll send by a tech to double check your diagnostics. You’ve still got some damaged pieces in you. They’re looking for replacements...”

 

“But the RK is a rare line. Yeah.” Connor’s smirk is present again. Markus can’t help but mirror him. 

 

“You’re functional for low strain activities, but that’s it. The tech will be able to be more specific. After he clears you, you can go home.” 

 

Connor had his own room at Jericho that may be more convenient to stay at incase he had to come back for repairs, but Connor was still leaning heavily into the lieutenant's side and Hank hadn’t seemed to ever consider the possibility of Connor staying instead of going home. Besides, Jericho tended to be chaotic with kids running about, and Markus had no doubt that if Connor stayed in the building he would end up working on  _ something  _ by mid afternoon at the latest. At least if he was home he would be forced to adhere to whatever conditions the tech explained to them and he would be more comfortable. 

 

There was really no question about it. 

 

He reached out for Connor one last time, and they clasped forearms firmly before he backed towards the curtain. 

 

“I already have people looking for the parts so you can get back to work. If nothing else we’ll contact CyberLife and... make them give us some parts. I don’t know. We’ll figure out something.” 

 

Hank’s gruff smile is surprisingly sincere. 

 

He doesn’t get any more work done that day, opting to instead ditch the upper floors and wander in and out of the people milling about— His mind was in places far away from politics. He wanted to be surrounded by his people— by those he truly cared about. 

 

There’s enough questions about Connor’s status from the second floor alone to wash out the lingering fear and set him whole again. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!! Please review!!


End file.
